


until the break of day

by sunnydaisy



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: AU, All Human, F/M, FBI Agent Caroline Forbes, Only One Bed, Tropes abound, art thief Klaus Mikaelson, enemies to reluctant allies to lovers, how will they ever cope with the single bed, not at all supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnydaisy/pseuds/sunnydaisy
Summary: The blame rests fully on her iced coffee addiction.(or: FBI Agent Caroline Forbes must escort internationally wanted art thief Klaus Mikaelson to prison. Some things get in the way.)
Relationships: Caroline Forbes/Klaus Mikaelson
Comments: 45
Kudos: 95





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blame rests fully on her iced coffee addiction.
> 
> (or: FBI Agent Caroline Forbes must escort internationally wanted art thief Klaus Mikaelson to prison)

**until the break of day**

* * *

The blame rests fully on her iced coffee addiction. 

Caroline swears to it on the affidavit, and afterwards, there the admission sits, enshrined fully in a case file that she’s _sure_ some law school student will one day read and presume to judge her without having ever stepped foot into the Starbucks nearest to the Hoover Building. 

The floor is _sticky_ , okay? Who in their right mind would consume anything from a place with sticky floors? 

Not Caroline Forbes, that’s for sure, and if some WASPy law student at George Washington wants to judge her for it, well. She cordially invites them to kiss her _entire_ ass. 

Her first week in DC, she had re-routed her entire morning commute, hell-bent on finding a local place that didn’t dump half a gallon of sugar into their drinks. It had taken her two weeks and a few 5 am alarms, but she’d found it—the Ugly Mug, near Alexandria, home to the best iced coffee in the entire commonwealth of Virginia. It was less than ideal, coming from Crystal City like she was, but one sip and she’d been convinced it was worth the 6:30 call time. 

Which is how, on that fateful morning, she winds up late.

“Forbes,” Agent Sheila Bennett says disapprovingly, lips pursed as though she had swallowed a lemon. “So glad you could join us.” Her eyes linger on the nearly empty plastic cup that Caroline tries, and fails, to hide at her side. “My office in 10. Salvatore will get you caught up after.”

The meeting, the entirety of which she had missed, wraps up with more than a few snickers in her direction. 

Ten minutes later, she’s sitting in Agent Bennett’s office, notebook in hand, her spine straight as a rod as she stares at a five-inch-thick file. “Ma’am?” she questions faintly, not sure she heard correctly. 

Bennett isn’t even looking at her; her focus is on the computer screen to Caroline’s left. “I have an assignment for you,” she repeats distractedly. “How much do you know about the Originals, Forbes?” Her finger taps on her mouse.

 _Originals, Originals_ —her mind spins. “Um, they’re a crime family from the UK,” she recites, her forehead wrinkling as she tries to cast her memory back to her time at the Academy. “They...steal art?” Bennett shoots her a look and Caroline repeats more confidently, “They steal art.”

“Give the girl a gold star,” the agent says with just a hint of sarcasm. “Yes, they steal art. From museums, from private collections—hell, they’d steal the hipster shit off the walls in a coffee shop bathroom. Speaking of,” Bennett swivels in her chair and pins Caroline with a look. “If you’re late to my briefing again, Forbes, I’ll have you spending your days double and triple checking the DOJ intake numbers against federal prison records for a month.”

Mouth dry, Caroline nods once. “Understood,” she says, voice shaking only a little. 

“Good. Now,” Bennett taps the thick file sitting between them. “How long have you been an analyst here, Caroline?” 

_Caroline._ The use of her first name is either a very good or very bad sign. “A year, ma’am.” 

Bennett considers her thoughtfully. “Do you know why they’re called the Originals?”

The rapid change in conversation is enough to give her whiplash. She recovers quickly. “They...steal original works of art. In fact,” the cogs in her brain churn quickly, “multiple attempts have been made to lure them out with forgeries, but it hasn’t worked. They know their art.” 

When she looks up, Bennett is half smiling. “Exactly,” the agent says, “except for one thing.” She leans forward. “We caught one.” 

Her half smile turns into a full smile, and Caroline gets the impression she is witness to a rare thing. “One of the sons was caught going after a Degas at the Met. He’d already successfully lifted a Matisse from the MoMA, which has unfortunately yet to be recovered.” Bennett’s gaze sharpens on Caroline. “There will be three FBI agents escorting him from his court date tomorrow back to federal prison in McIntosh. I’ve already assigned Salvatore and Collins to be the leads, but—” her head tilts and she pauses, her expression turning searching. 

Caroline sits up the tiniest bit straighter and pulls her shoulders back just a bit. _Exude confidence, exude power_ , the self-help books had all said, _and manifest what you want._

She wants to be the third agent, wants to make the leap from analyst to agent, wants to make all the training she had put herself through mean something more than data entry while her colleagues put themselves in danger. _I want this_ , she thinks fiercely, and she lets that desire curl out of her like smoke. 

“I need a third agent there,” Bennett says finally, fingers drumming against the file. “I want you to do it.”

An explosion of excitement bursts in her chest, but Caroline keeps her features schooled into careful blankness. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Your job— your _only_ job, Forbes— is to document. Make sure that no one roughs him up—” Bennett scowls, her fingers drumming faster, “document anything he says during transport because it could be evidence for later, and generally speaking just—hang back and learn from the leads.” She arches an eyebrow. “I expect you to be at the courthouse in Arlington at 1200 _sharp_.” 

The implication is clear—if she’s late, she can expect a veritable lifetime of triple checking intake numbers, if Bennett doesn’t drive her out of the FBI entirely. 

And with that— _no pressure, Forbes_ , she thinks to herself—she is dismissed.

— 

She arrives at the courthouse at 1130, determined to make good on what may end up being her only shot at impressing Agent Bennett. Salvatore and Collins are already there, in deep conversation that halts when she walks over. 

“First transport?” Collins asks, eying her in a way that makes her feel just a tad uncomfortable. She’s seen him around—he’s one of the older agents in the office, with the beginnings of a belly hanging just slightly over his belt and a weathered face surrounded by a head of thick greying hair. He’s munching on sunflower seeds, and when he sees her gaze fall to the bag, he holds it out to her. Caroline wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

“First transport,” she confirms, angling her body slightly away from him and towards Salvatore. She has always liked Stefan, one of the only other William and Mary grads in the building. His wife, a DOJ attorney, was always trying to set her up with the single lawyers in her office. “What do you need me to do?”

He opens his mouth to answer but is cut off by Collins. “Just look pretty,” he suggests, laughing. Caroline feels a pang of uncertainty and when she looks over at Salvatore, he’s wincing. 

“Just—let us lead,” he suggests gently, leading Caroline away from standard police issue cruiser that sits in front of the courthouse. “And, you know.” His voice dips lower. “Sorry about him. I think the higher ups are giving him the easy shit in the hopes that he retires soon. He’s real old school, you know?”

It’s not shocking. She’s overheard the older, more seasoned agents say horrific things about what they liked to call _the direction the FBI is taking_ —more racially diverse, more female, more progressive in general. But still, she fights back a wince. Agent Bennett is a Black female, she reminds herself, and has been through far worse. Caroline refuses to let her down. 

Though she won’t exactly cry herself to sleep at night when Collins retires. 

“Sounds like a plan,” she says, and Salvatore dips his chin in acknowledgement. 

The transport car, a sleek black Explorer, arrives a handful of minutes late. Its tardiness makes her frown, a tiny string tugging in the back of her mind. When she glances up, she sees the same expression on Collins’ face and immediately schools her own features back into neutrality. 

Cameras line the front steps of the courthouse, their watchful lenses trained to the doors so as not to miss the possibility of one opening. Caroline checks her watch and frowns again. The court is running late as well, and next to her, Salvatore nudges her. 

“Need to upgrade your tech,” he says with a grin, holding his own wrist up to reveal his Apple Watch. She glances down at her wrist, where her traditional watch, with its scratched face and scuffed links, sits. 

“I’m good,” she says, turning back to watch, along with the dedicated viewers of Court TV, the door. 

When it finally opens, a murmur runs through the pack of reporters, almost immediately followed by the near-constant clicking of camera lenses and shouts for comment.

“Good God,” she comments under breath to Salvatore, “is it always this loud?”

He laughs. “Nah. Apparently one of the twenty-four-hour networks did an hour long special on the Originals a few weeks ago, and since then—” he shrugs. “Story exploded. Press interest skyrocketed.” He scoffs lowly. “How much you wanna bet he’s gonna get a ton of lonely cat ladies writing to him in prison?”

Caroline doesn’t answer, keeping her focus steady on the door, where she recognizes several of their fellow FBI agents leading a man in a sharp suit down the steps. Other suited men follow—his lawyers, she assumes disdainfully. 

_Did you think he was handsome, Agent Forbes?_ the debriefing agent will ask her later. 

_I have eyes_ , she will retort tartly. 

He _is_ handsome, although, Caroline reasons, it isn’t hard to be handsome in an excellently tailored suit. Privately, she agrees with Stefan—he’ll probably get more letters than he’ll know what to do with.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Collins warns from nearby. “Pretty faces are a dime a dozen, Forbes; and that one would sooner shoot you and leave you for dead than take you to dinner.” 

“Collins,” Salvatore rebukes sternly, but Caroline ignores them both. 

The agents, whose faces she vaguely recognizes, stop at their car and the crush of reporters follows, yelling questions for Mikaelson, for his lawyers, for _them_. 

The local DC cops keep the crowd mostly at bay as Salvatore, the lead agent, nudges Mikaelson into the car, with Caroline and Collins following before he jogs to the other side and hops into the passenger seat. Then they’re off, speeding away from the courthouse, the stately architecture of the city flying past them outside the car windows. 

Salvatore turns from the passenger seat and glances over at Caroline. “Doing okay?”

But Mikaelson, somehow taking up way more space than he should be allowed, especially while handcuffed in the middle seat, faux-preens. “Was a bit stressful, mate. Could do with a drink, if it’s on offer.” 

Salvatore’s friendly demeanor vanishes. “Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, his eyes hardening and his expression turning ice cold. “No one gives a single shit about you, _mate_.”

Mikaelson blinks, then sends him a sardonic half smile. “That display back there begs to differ, I’d say.” 

Salvatore’s eyes glitter and Caroline cuts in hurriedly. “I’m good, Salvatore,” she assures him, her eyes flicking between her coworker and the thief next to her. 

But he doesn’t seem to hear her, his eyes fixed on Mikaelson. “Bail’s set at millions, Nicky. Millions you clearly don’t have, or we wouldn’t be dragging your ass back to jail.” 

Mikaelson shrugs, and he’s either entirely unaffected by the prospect, or an excellent actor. “Perhaps that is the plan, my friend.” 

“I am not your friend.” 

That makes him smile, all biting edges and no humor. “Quite all right,” he demurs, “I have plenty of others.” 

“Salvatore,” Collins snaps sharply, and the strange conversation is ended, just as quickly as it started. 

The drive to the detention facility is a solid three hours from the courthouse, and Caroline watches as the yellowing green of the early fall leaves fly by as the car speeds down the remote highway. McIntosh, a tiny town that revolves around McIntosh federal prison, is nestled on the outskirts of a national forest, and she resolves to at least enjoy the scenery.

The radio is playing softly, classical, or maybe jazz—it’s too low for her to quite make it out. 

It all happens very quickly, she’ll testify later. In the blink of an eye, in fact, around two hours into the trip. 

_Trauma can warp the memory_ , the clinical psychologist to whom the FBI sends her will later tell her in what Caroline is sure is a sincere but failing attempt to comfort. _And memory is already a very fickle thing._

This is what she knows:

The driver’s name was a mystery. 

Mikaelson was sandwiched in the middle seat, between her and Collins, his hands cuffed and his attitude brazen. 

Collins wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. She distinctly remembers giving him shit about and sending a disapproving look his way. 

Salvatore was in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest in between barbs traded with Mikaelson. 

This is what she sees: 

Salvatore, from his position in the front seat, checking his watch and looking at the driver. 

Collins, on the other side of the suspect, yawning. Mikaelson, his eyes closed, pretending to nap. 

Without warning or preamble, the driver jerks the wheel; and a half second later, Salvatore is lunging for it. Momentum slings Caroline sideways, her body flung violently against the seatbelt and her head thudding loudly against the window, sending white sparks across her vision. 

The world spins, metal crunches, she thinks she hears—was that a _fucking_ _shot_ , and then everything turns to black. 

—   
**tbc**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, everything I know about the FBI comes from true crime documentaries, and YES I have like five WIPs going right now, but what can I say. I couldn't resist adding one more. 
> 
> As always, I am on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sunnydaisy6) and [Tumblr](https://little-miss-sunny-daisy.tumblr.com/)!


	2. day one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First, the supplies on hand: 
> 
> Her cell phone, with 87% battery and a struggling half bar of service; her gun, holstered firmly to her side, with six rounds in the chamber; the contents of her briefcase which includes three tampons, her wallet and badge, a travel pack of Advil, a Twix that is probably smushed beyond recognition, her emergency fifty, a legal pad and a pen; and her sunglasses which have somehow miraculously escaped unscathed. 
> 
> And him. The handcuffed and internationally wanted art thief in a court-ready, perfectly fitted suit.

**until the break of day**

* * *

_Day One_

“Wake the bloody hell up,” an aggravated male voice orders, followed by a harsh stinging across one side of her face. Caroline blinks once, then twice, her eyes focusing as the light of day floods into her vision. 

Her head aches, and her arms sting, but a quick internal catalogue confirms that the pain is localized to just those areas. Slowly she sits up, her hand brushing the briefcase next to her. Hers. Her fingers wrap around it tightly, as though it is a lifesaver keeping her from slipping beneath crashing ocean waves. 

“Excellent,” the same voice snaps— _accented, young_ — “you’re not dead.” 

Caroline turns and finds Mikaelson squatting nearby, his face smeared with sweat and dirt and blood. He had _hit_ her, she thinks numbly, trying to quell the rising panic in her chest as she focuses on him. But it’s behind him where the real nightmare sits, the Explorer lying upside down, engulfed in jumping, crackling flames. 

Her lungs contract tightly as she looks away and chokes out, “Salvatore? Collins?” 

Mikaelson throws a hard look her way before he shakes his head once, a sharp, single jerk to the left. 

“I only just got you out,” he says flatly, his voice gravelly. 

Her heart sinks, and she lets her head hang, for just a moment, in solemn respect—

_Pop. Pop pop pop._

Something whizzes horrifically close to her face, and her entire body tenses as she scrambles to her feet. A quick look over at Mikaelson confirms he too has risen, and even in the short time she has been around him, she can tell the look on his face has morphed from _sleek art thief_ to more _knee cap destroying mobster_. 

_Pop pop pop._

Someone is _fucking shooting_ at them. 

“Run,” Mikaelson snarls at her, and later, when she replays the events of the day over, she will be offended that he felt he needed to throw such an obvious directive her way. She’s not an idiot—she has already taken off by then, darting away from the road and into the heavily wooded forest. 

She runs until the _pops_ fade, drowned out by the quiet murmuring of a forest settling towards the late afternoon. Behind her, she can hear Mikaelson’s footsteps, just slightly heavier than her own but just as swift as they run. 

Finally, what feels like hours later, but is really only minutes when she checks her watch—mercifully still working, because seriously, the last thing she needs is the ghost of her Grandma Forbes haunting her for busting the expensive watch she had left behind for Caroline in her will— _finally_ , she stops running, slowing to a walk. Her lungs burn and her legs ache with the effort. 

“Okay,” she whispers to the trees, her hands at her hips as she walks, “okay. Think. _Think_ , Caroline.”

“Caroline,” Mikaelson repeats from behind her, his voice like a caress. 

She stiffens automatically, the vertebrae of her spine locking into rod-like straightness, before she turns and eyes him critically. His hands, she notes gratefully, are still cuffed, though there is the added problem of the key being in Salvatore’s briefcase. An acute pang of muted grief darts through her at the thought of Salvatore and _oh God_ Katherine will be devastated; but she can’t think about that now.

Mikaelson holds his bound wrists out in an approximation of a handshake. “Pleasure. Niklaus, though my friends—” here he throws a grin that is all sharp edges her way, “—my friends call me Klaus.” 

Her hands don’t move from where they hang at her sides. “We’re not friends.” 

His hands come up to his heart. “You wound me,” he mocks, though his face still carries the hard, dangerous lines of before.

“Don’t tempt me,” she fires back as she walks away. “My fri—my colleagues are most likely dead because of you.” 

Mikaelson has the good grace to turn somber. “My condolences.” 

“Shove it,” she snaps. “Whoever it was, they were after _you_.” 

He doesn’t deny it. “Most likely,” he agrees quietly. 

“So what do you think they wanted from you?” 

“They probably want to know where I stashed the Matisse,” Mikaelson says, his tone shifting from its former terrifying tightness to what she suspects is an attempt at mildness. He looks entirely too at ease for someone in handcuffs who was just _shot at_. Caroline glares at him. 

“I—am—an—analyst,” she grits out, thankful at least that her anger at him outweighs her fear and masks the rising tide of desperation. It wouldn’t do to have her voice shake while she tries to give off an authoritative air. “And if I get shot because of one lousy painting—”

“ _Lousy_? Sweetheart, I may have to shoot you myself.”

“Don’t interrupt,” she snaps, squeezing her eyes shut as the wheels in her brain churn, trying to figure out the best course of action for the situation in which they have now found themselves. 

_Salvatore— Collins—_ she can’t think about them, can’t think about how, just yesterday morning, Stefan was teasing her about having an English degree instead of something useful to her actual chosen profession. She shakes her head once and squares her shoulders, all too aware of the pair of blue eyes fixed directly on her. 

_The driver._ The driver, who had been late to pick them up at the courthouse. He had betrayed them, or been a plant all along. Caroline is sure of it, but it hardly matters now. Now, all she can focus on is surviving.

First, the supplies on hand: 

Her cell phone, with 87% battery and a struggling half bar of service; her gun, holstered firmly to her side, with six rounds in the chamber; the contents of her briefcase which includes three tampons, her wallet and badge, a travel pack of Advil, a Twix that is probably smushed beyond recognition, her emergency fifty, a legal pad and a pen; and her sunglasses which have somehow miraculously escaped unscathed. 

And him. The handcuffed and internationally wanted art thief in a court-ready, perfectly fitted suit. 

“Okay,” she says finally, opening her eyes and looking around at the fields that stretch out as far as she can see. “We need a plan.”

His eyes are dark blue and laughing at her. “An excellent observation.” 

“Don’t sass me. I’m the one with the gun.”

Mikaelson mock salutes her, the gesture stilted by his still-cuffed hands. “Aye, aye, Captain,” he says with a biting grin. 

Caroline scowls at him and debates on turning her back to him, before dismissing that idea. Best to keep her eyes on him so she doesn’t get caught flat footed. 

For his part, Mikaelson seems entirely unperturbed, especially given that the driver, whoever he was— hitman, she’s assuming—had managed to infiltrate the FBI and take out two federal agents in his quest to find and eliminate the man standing in front of her. 

“We need to stay away from the road,” she decides finally, “but we should try to follow it. Might find a house, or a gas station.” 

“You’re the boss,” he says with a mocking half-bow, and she shoots him a final glare before setting her shoulders.

— 

The sun is nearly set in the sky and Caroline won’t admit it—not to herself, _definitely_ not to him, and not to the debriefing agent who interviews her later—but the beginnings of dark, inky tendrils of fear are twisting in her gut. With the sun goes any hope of visibility, and, stripped of one of their senses, she has little hope that they’ll survive the night. Particularly without any shelter. 

What if they wander the forest until they drop dead? What if the hitman finds them? She has no doubt that if _that_ happens, she’s dead where she stands. 

“Was your plan to walk until we were lost?” he asks from next to her. 

“Do you have a better one?” 

“You could uncuff me,” Mikaelson suggests, holding his wrists up towards her. “I’m a lamb, sweetheart. I promise.” He pauses before adding gravely, “I did save your life, you know.” 

“Yeah, _no_. I read your file,” she retorts as she picks through the underbrush, silently offering up her most sincere thanks to whatever force at work in the universe made her reach for her most comfortable boots that morning. She steps gingerly over a thick fallen branch. “How many guards did you take out at the Musée d'Orsay again? Twelve?”

He _tsks_ at her. “Ten, and not a single fatality.” His head tilts and a sardonic grin ghosts across his face. “As you would well know if you’d read my file.” 

Caroline flushes. “It was over seven hundred pages,” she snaps back defensively. “I read the important parts.” Before he can reply, she points at him as she steps over an exposed tree root the size of her leg. “I uncuff you, and then what? You incapacitate me, rendezvous with the rest of your family, and leave me for dead? I don’t _think_ so, buddy.”

Mikaelson places a hand over his heart. “I would _never_ ,” he swears and she shoots him a glare. 

“I—” she cuts herself off, stopping in her tracks and listening intently. He stops too, and looks around. 

“Do you hear that?” she asks, frowning. He goes eerily still, and the way that his eyes settle on her reminds her distinctly of a hawk watching a mouse. 

Without the noise of their footsteps, the sound comes into clearer focus—the soft melody of moving water. 

“Walk,” she orders; he arches an eyebrow at her but doesn’t argue. He turns his back towards her and for a moment she lets her gaze linger on how his white dress shirt—hopelessly wrinkled by their trek—fits snuggly against his shoulders. 

It’s been the worst day of her life since her father died—arguably worse, given that she is now well and truly lost in the middle of the forest with only a criminal for an ally. 

She’s allowed, she reasons, to _look_. 

Not five minutes later, there it is—the source of the soft bubbling: a creek that rushes over smooth pebbles as it bisects the forest around them. And behind it, a miracle.

 _You just happened upon a cabin?_ the debriefing agent will ask, her nose wrinkling.

_Yes._

_In the George Washington and Jefferson National Forest?_

_It’s nearly three thousand miles of land_ , Caroline will retort. _And last I checked, the current administration was slashing park ranger budgets. You tell_ me _why it’s sitting there undisturbed._

There it stands, just beyond the swell of a small hill—a tiny, unassuming log cabin, its windows dark, with not a soul in sight. 

But first they have to get past the creek. 

It’s hardly the Potomac—it’s no wider than a DC street, but what worries Caroline more than the width of the water is the _depth_. There are a few places where she can make out the bottom, but in others, the creek seems to dip, the water stilling precariously as though the rocks are buried under feet of water. 

“We have to get across,” she announces, pleased when her voice is far steadier than she herself feels. She looks down at her boots and chews her lip. Wet feet could dry, but wet shoes were an entirely different beast, and she would be shocked if the cabin across the way had electricity with which to dry them out. 

“Wouldn’t take them off, sweetheart,” Mikaelson says, his voice right in her ear. She jerks away and narrows her eyes at him; he had somehow crept right up next to her, purposefully invading her space.

Caroline has never considered herself a slight woman— at five-eight, she has always towered over the majority over her female friends, and he is only a few inches taller than her. But something about him makes her feel much smaller than she is, and she can’t put her finger on what exactly it is. 

“After all,” he continues, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as she glares at the softly flowing water, “wet shoes are preferably to a bloody foot.” 

God _damnit_ , he has a point. 

“Fine,” she grouses before taking one hand and giving his shoulder a push. “You first.” 

He makes it look easy, she thinks annoyedly as he crosses without issue, bounding gracefully across without so much a slip. 

From the other side of the creek, he turns and looks at her expectantly, and Caroline half-wonders if he will chance it, handcuffs and all: a break towards freedom, even if it does only lead further into the depths of the forest.

But he only waits, having the audacity to look _impatient_. Which, she supposes more than a little begrudgingly, makes sense—he, too, must be feeling the beginning of the biting chill in the air, and the volume of the night time forest is beginning to rise. 

With a scowl, Caroline follows him, making sure to step exactly where he did. The slick rocks of the creek bed prove treacherous and she thinks she’s nearly home free when her ankle wobbles, her toes clench in her boot and she wavers. 

A warm hand wraps around her own, and then she’s pulled forcefully from the creek before her foot has a chance to slide into what she’s sure is ice cold water. 

She blinks, her brain momentarily scrambled, before she composes herself and pulls her hand out of his. “Keep walking,” she commands, but the authority in her voice has faded just enough for her to notice. 

The door is a faded rust red, and there is chopped wood resting on the ground next to it. There’s an outdoor light next to the door, but the bulb is coated in dust so thick that it looks more gray than white; and the wilderness, having clearly once been cleared out around the front has begun to creep back up towards the cabin. 

She chews her lip as she walks the perimeter, expecting to find a greenhouse or garden of weed. It’s the only explanation she has for why anyone would have a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and it sets her teeth on edge. It’s common knowledge in the office how the West Coast desk has had to deal with pot farms, and she’d rather not find out first hand just how willing their farmers would go to protect their product. 

But there’s nothing. The back of the house only reveals more forest, and the beginnings of a tomato vine that looks as though someone attempted a garden, and then quickly abandoned it, much like the cabin itself. Several yards away is a crude well, the bucket long rotted. 

Frowning, she returns to the front of the house where Mikaelson is leaning against the siding, looking for all the world as though he’s entirely at ease. She scowls at him for good measure. 

Back in front of the door, Caroline tries the handle and flinches back in surprise when it gives easily, swinging creakily open.

_Did you find this suspicious at all, Agent Forbes?_

_Of course I did. I’m not an idiot._

The cabin has clearly lacked occupants for some time, judging by the thick layer of dust that coats the furniture. Caroline fights off a sneeze as she walks into the foyer, noting with some surprise that the electricity works as she flips a light switch. It’s downright strange that a cabin long abandoned would have someone paying its electric bill—maybe, she reasons doubtfully, there are solar panels up on the roof, hidden by the retreating sun. 

On a hunch, she walks over to the sink in the kitchen and turns the faucet; as expected, water begins to flow. It’s not clear like the water in the city; _well water_ , she thinks with a tiny frown. 

“I don’t like this,” she announces, turning back to wear Klaus hovers in the doorway. “It’s too convenient.” She glares at him, the root of all of her problems. 

“It’s enclosed,” he points out practically, and she doesn’t like that he is giving voice to the reasonable whisper in her head—the one whispering that they should stay here, and not look a gift horse in the mouth. Hadn’t she _just_ been wondering, as she combated slowing mounting hysteria, just how they planned on making it through the encroaching darkness of a national forest? “It’s warm.” He uses his cuffed hands to open a cabinet, and inside are stacks of canned goods. “And I don’t know about you, love, but I was getting a little tetchy.” 

Caroline scowls at him but doesn’t reply. Truth be told, her stomach was beginning to rumble, protesting its emptiness. Her morning bagel has long since evaporated, and rationally, she knows that if they have any hope of saving themselves, they need to eat, rest, and most importantly, _plan._

“Okay,” she says finally, crossing her arms and considering him. “We’ll stay here—for tonight.” 

He holds his hands out towards her, the cuffs gleaming in the cabin’s lights. “Don’t suppose you have the key?” 

Despite herself, she feels a stab of sympathy for him. “No,” she tells him. “It was in Agent Salvatore’s briefcase.” 

Mikaelson blinks slowly, the way her mother’s cat does when it sees a ladybug, and shrugs, a half smile ghosting on his face. “No matter,” he says lightly before nodding to where her hair is still pinned in its’ half up style. “Trouble you for a pin?” 

“No,” she says flatly. “I’m not helping you pick the lock on those.” 

He gives a heavy sigh before turning and facing the rest of the tiny cabin. 

If she were visiting this cabin in a normal setting, she’d call it open-concept: the tiny kitchen is off to the side of a tiny dining room, and in the middle is a tiny living room with a two-seat sofa in the middle and a tube TV sitting above the fireplace. On the other side of the living room is the bed, with what looks to be a handsewn quilt and an intricately carved headboard. 

There’s a side closet next to the front door, and when she opens it, she finds it stocked with what looks like men’s outerwear—dark greens, blues, and plaid flannels hang from neatly lined hangers with no identifying markers. It smells of mothballs, and she begins to wonder if this is a base camp for illegal off-season hunting in the national forest. 

Caroline shuts the closet door and turns her attention back to the kitchen. She pulls open drawers and roots around in them for a can opener. “Make yourself useful,” she orders as she searches, “and find a pan to cook in.” 

—

Dinner consists of two pilfered cans, one of peas and one of baked beans, and glasses of cooling boiled water; Caroline wonders if she can leave a note with her office phone number so that she can eventually reimburse the cabin’s owner—if they ever returned. Or arrest them, if any of her theories prove correct. She chews thoughtfully, staring at the peeling paint on the cabinets, the wheels in her brain spinning. 

Her neck prickles and she pulls herself out of it to find Mikaelson staring at her, one eyebrow arched and a tiny smirk on his face, as though he knows something she doesn’t. 

Instead of calling him out, she leans back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest. “So who’s after you?” she demands, narrowing her eyes at him. 

Mikaelson leans forward and folds his hands in front of him. “I have a whole list, sweetheart.” 

“Agent,” she corrects him tartly, and somehow that makes him grin. 

“Of course,” he agrees easily. “Agent Caroline.” 

She isn’t stupid; she doesn’t correct him with her last name. “So?” she prompts. “Your list.” 

He seems, inexplicably, to brighten at the reminder, as though the discussion of his potential murder cheers him. “Ah, right. Could be the Petrovas, I’m sure you’re aware of them, love—sorry.” He flashes her a dimpled smile. “Agent.” 

_The Petrovas_ —she nods absently, thumb swiping over the top of her fork. Yes, she’s aware of them, the small Bulgarian crime family that operates mostly out of New York. “Ties to the Russian mob,” she says, more to herself than to him. 

But he nods all the same. “Indeed,” he murmurs, “and none too pleased about…” he seems to catch himself oversharing and instead trails off. “A few things.” 

Caroline files that away to investigate further later. “Who else?”

Mikaelson shrugs one shoulder. “They’re the most likely suspects, but there is always my father. Or,” his head tilts, “my brother, acting as his surrogate.” 

“Some family,” she comments blithely. 

“Indeed,” he says again, and his smile has turned a touch self-deprecating. “Sorry to have dragged you into it, sweetheart.”

She leans back, her fingers drumming against the table that separates them. “Unlikely to be your family,” she says finally, her brow furrowing. “Last intelligence put your father in—” _Croatia_ she had been about to say, but he cuts her off. 

“Bolivia,” he says and she frowns. It’s decidedly _not_ what the intelligence had said, but she suspects he may know better than the Europe desk, especially given the revelation that his father is actively _hunting_ him. Still, she stores the information away to pass along later. 

“And your brother?”

His smile turns sharp. “Finn,” he says and the name is only the slightest bit familiar. 

“He isn’t in any of your files.”

“He wouldn’t be,” Mikaelson says flatly. 

Caroline waits, but he gives her no further information. “In your expert opinion—”

“Expert, am I?” He directs his sharp smile towards her and she feels the skin of her face grow hot. 

“On yourself? Yes. And furthermore, I would expect an internationally wanted art thief to keep track of all the assassins lying in wait for him,” she shoots back. 

“You _expect_. So you’ve thought of me, sweetheart?”

“I had to read your file,” she retorts. “Seven hundred pages, remember?”

“That by your own admission, you didn’t finish. Can I fill in any blanks?”

She snorts and stands, reaching for her plate, and, after the briefest beat of hesitation, his. “Pass.” She deposits them in the sink and turns the faucet on, the water ice cold as she begins to wash. 

His chair scrapes and then he’s next to her, crowding her space; but Caroline refuses to move away and lose what has become, in her mind, a bizarre power game. His elbow grazes her and then his fingers brush her own as he takes the dishes from her hands, his movements stilted around the cuffs. 

They wash and dry in silence, and then, the dishes cleaned and put away, she turns to him. “We need a plan.”

Mikaelson leans against the counter. “We?”

“Unless you want to die from exposure in a national forest. We’re all we have.”

Caroline can see the response forming, and she can see the moment he bites it back. “A plan,” he says instead and nods to her briefcase where it rests against the door. “Still no mobile service?”

She’s not optimistic but she walks over and pulls her phone out—80% battery and no service whatsoever. On a whim, she swipes over to see if there is any Wi-Fi; she’s only slightly disappointed when there’s nothing. It had been a shot in the dark anyway. 

“Nothing,” she confirms, her thumb sliding over the screen as an idea strikes her. She swipes over to her activity, and there they sit: her steps. Roughly four miles of steps, which means they’re almost four miles deep into the forest. 

Four miles from the highway. 

Chewing her lip, she locks the phone and drops it back into her bag. 

She keeps this information to herself. 

Above her briefcase, nailed to the door frame, is an old school thermometer, holding what she’s almost certain is mercury. Behind the glass, the red liquid is hovering in the fifties—enough for the air to hold a chill. There’s no thermostat in the cabin that she sees, and though she and Mikaelson both have jackets, neither is particularly warm. 

“Thoughts?” Mikaelson asks from close to her ear. 

Grinding her teeth, she elbows him aside. “Sofa,” she says, emphasizing the word with a flourish towards the small two-seater. 

“I’m taller,” he points out mildly.

“And still under arrest,” she fires back shortly. “Sofa.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender and goes to take one of the pillows from the bed. 

Caroline hesitates as she watches him, a question spinning silently in her mind. But when he pulls his dress shirt over his head in one ridiculously smooth movement considering the cuffs, and she sees the muscles that line his arms and his back, the answer is clear. She turns, discreetly sliding the gun from the holster at her belt and hiding it under her pillow.

She’ll feel better if it’s close at hand. Just in case. 

—

Later, in the debriefing session, Caroline will keep this to herself. There is, she will reason, no need for the FBI to know. 

At some point during the night, she wakes up, unsure of where exactly she is. Her muscles tense, then relax as the events of the horrible day come flooding back. 

“All right over there, Agent?” Mikaelson calls out from the sofa.

It’s then that she realizes her teeth are chattering, and her feet feel like blocks of ice. She wiggles her toes and is momentarily relieved when they still move. 

“Mikaelson,” she says, her voice hoarse and her body shivering under the thin coverage of the quilt. “You can, um.” She swallows, the nerves threatening to outweigh the cold; but the cold eventually wins. “You can get in. If, _if_ you keep your hands to yourself.” Her own hand slides under the pillow and feels the ice-cold metal of her firearm; it makes her relax a tiny bit. 

“I’m a _thief_ , sweetheart,” he says, then she hears rustling, the padding of footsteps, and the bed dips on the empty side. “Hardly a murderer. We do maintain a certain semblance of honor, you know.” 

His presence provides almost immediately warmth, and Caroline feels her eyes begin to close again. “If you tell anyone about this,” she mumbles with her best attempt at sounding threatening, “I’ll make your life miserable.” 

That makes him chuckle. “I have no doubt, sweetheart.”

She would correct him— _it’s Agent to you_ —but she’s already asleep.

— 

**tbc**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, there was only bed, whatever shall they do??
> 
> (PS—it's my goal to update this weekly on Sundays until it's finished, so watch this space!)
> 
> As always, I am on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sunnydaisy6) and [Tumblr](https://little-miss-sunny-daisy.tumblr.com/)!


	3. day two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They aren’t exactly enemies—she prefers being assigned to him than to the other nefarious populations of the seedy criminal underbelly. He, at least, has never killed anyone, according to his file. There are certainly worse people she could be stuck with trying to survive— she can name a few off the top of her head. Some of them work with her at the FBI, on the same supposed side. 
> 
> But neither are they friends.

**until the break of day**

* * *

_Day Two_

When Caroline wakes up, sunlight is streaming through the shut curtains, and she is far, far warmer than when she went to sleep. This time, she remembers where she is, but her body is _stiff_. Her collar bone aches where the seat belt had caught her momentum and prevented her from flying out of the Explorer the previous day, and her head hurts. Her hand comes up to press against her forehead, as though she can soothe the ache there through pressure alone. 

The other side of the bed is empty, but she can hear the shower running from here, and she can’t entirely begrudge him his actions. If she had spent the last few days in prison, relegated to showering with other people present for a maximum of five minutes, she would be jumping at the first opportunity for a few minutes alone under a spray of hot water too. 

As though he hears her thoughts, the water cuts off and she steels herself. 

They aren’t exactly _enemies_ —she prefers being assigned to him than to the other nefarious populations of the seedy criminal underbelly. He, at least, has never killed anyone, according to his file. There are certainly worse people she could be stuck with trying to survive— she can name a few off the top of her head. Some of them work with her at the FBI, on the same supposed side. 

But neither are they friends. It is, after all, her job to make sure he is deposited safely to the doorstep of the McIntosh Federal Correctional Institution. 

Swinging her legs to the side, Caroline rolls her head, letting her neck stretch. It, too, aches, as do the muscles in her back, though she’s pretty sure it’s just the lingering effects of whiplash. She stands, and walks over to the front door, staring out at the early morning forest, continuing her stretching as she turns. 

It’s then that a glint of silver on the counter catches her eye. 

Stifling a yawn, she leans forward, then freezes as she realizes what it is. 

The handcuffs. 

_The fucking handcuffs._

Slowly, unable to quite believe it, she picks them up, one finger tracing a cuff. It seems to mock her in its openness.

“Funny thing about that particular model of Smith & Wesson handcuffs, love,” Mikaelson says pleasantly from across the room. 

She looks up sharply, just in time to see him toweling off his wet hair; she refuses to notice how it’s beginning to curl, just as she refuses to notice the lines of his naked torso or the towel draped around his hips. 

Unfazed, Mikaelson nods to the cuffs in her hands. “When that screw there, by your thumb, sweetheart, there you go—is loose, and one applies the right amount of pressure to the cuff itself, it tends to—” he gestures aimlessly. “Pop open.” 

Later, her debriefing agent will scribble this information down, a look of vague dismay on her face. _Which model of cuffs did you say that was, Forbes?_

Caroline stares at the open cuffs in her hands then looks back at him. To his credit, he isn’t fully grinning, but the whisper of a smug smile is playing at the corners of his mouth and blood begins to roar in her ears. She looks back down at the cuffs and then slowly, as though through Jell-O, she looks over at her pillow. 

Where her gun is hidden. 

Mikaelson catches the direction of her gaze, and for a moment, neither of them moves. 

Then they both spring forward, nearly in tandem, her towards the bed, and him towards her. She nearly, _nearly_ gets there first, but he moves just quickly enough, all fluid grace, his arms wrapping around her midsection to haul her backwards. 

She will not panic, _she will not panic_ — 

“Terribly sorry, love,” he says, and she can feel the rumble of his voice against her back as his lips brush the shell of her ear, “but can’t let you do that. I’m sure you understand.” 

The arms around her stomach are strong, corded with muscle definition she had noticed the night before but can no longer escape. Caroline swallows hard, and he’s close enough to see the movement of her throat. 

“Let go of me,” she says, and it’s cold comfort when her voice doesn’t shake. 

“Going to be a good girl, then?” 

“Bite. Me.” 

“Now, sweetheart, don’t go making offers you have no intention of honoring,” he chastises, and she jams her elbow into his belly. He’s barely fazed, and his arms only tighten, restricting her movement further. 

“Let go,” she repeats, her face flaming. He’s too close, and the hard line of his body is pressed fully into her back. His breath ruffles her hair. 

He laughs, low in her ear, then his grip slackens and she rushes over to the bed, flipping her pillow and just as she expected, but had hoped against the odds—her gun is gone. 

“It’s not even here!” she snaps, throwing the pillow down in frustration. 

Mikaelson shoots her a roguish grin. “Of course not, sweetheart.”

She whirls around and sputters at him. “So what—what the hell was _that_?” 

The grin broadens. “That was for me.” 

Enraged, she picks the pillow up again off the bed and hurls it at him. He dodges it easily and it sails past his head to land with a padded _thump_ on the kitchen floor. “Try it again and I will _end_ you,” she threatens. 

“Sweetheart, of that I have no doubt; I’m just making it a bit harder for you. Now,” he claps his hands together. “Let’s discuss our plan.”

Caroline points at him accusingly. “ _Our_ plan?” she repeats disdainfully. “We want two entirely different things, Mikaelson.”

His head tilts and she gets the impression he thinks, erroneously, that it makes him look harmless. “Surely not, Agent—unless you want to be stuck here with me for the foreseeable future?” His grin broadens. “I would not be opposed, if you insisted.” 

“Give me back my gun.” 

“Can’t do that, sweetheart.”

“ _Agent_ ,” she says through gritted teeth. “Okay. Fine. When I get you back to McIntosh, you can tack on theft of government property to your list of charges.” 

The threat doesn’t have the effect she wants; it doesn’t seem to have any effect at all. “So, you do have a plan?” He leans against the wall nearest to the door, still only clothed in the towel draped around his hips. 

She fixes him with her best impression of Agent Bennett’s glare, but he is entirely unfazed. “We walk,” she says instead, then gestures to where the sunlight is pouring into the room from the front window. “Sun rises in the east, and the highway we crashed on runs east-west. We walk that way,” she points out the window, “and we should hit the highway.” 

One of his eyebrows arches and then he grins, a slow, cat in the cream grin. “A clever plan,” he acknowledges, and she waits for the other shoe to drop, for him to pull out the gun and announce that, despite the _cleverness_ of her plan, he can’t allow it as it leads him directly to prison. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, Mikaelson gestures towards the bathroom and says, “Water pressure is a bit lacking, but it’s hot enough.” He eyes her critically. “Might help with the whiplash I’m sure you sustained too, after yesterday.” 

Five minutes later, as she’s rubbing her aching muscles under the spray of mostly hot water, she begrudgingly admits to herself that he had a point. 

—

“Some ground rules,” she says before they strike out towards the approximation of where she thinks the highway is. 

Instead of answering, one of his eyebrows rises and that infuriating half-smile tugs one corner of his mouth upwards. “I’m listening.” 

“If we see a bear, you shoot it.” 

That makes him laugh, and it’s a wonder, she thinks privately, how much younger it makes him look. 

“Agreed,” he says, the smile lingering. “Anything else?”

Caroline checks her watch before looking back at him. “I have an idea of how far the highway is,” she says, “and I know how long it takes for me to walk a mile.” Her gaze turns pointed. “Kill me, or otherwise incapacitate me, and you’ll never figure it out.” She leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Enjoy dying lost in the forest, asshole.” 

Something flares in the blue depths of his eyes, but it’s gone as soon as she notices it. “Fine,” he says with a single nod of his head. “Anything else?” 

“That’s it for now, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

He turns to walk away, his shoulders taut. Caroline’s eyes follow him briefly before she lets her finger slide over the blunt edge of the dinner knife she had slid into her jacket sleeve out of a kitchen drawer when he wasn’t looking. It’s not ideal—the thing is duller than one of Collins’ long-winded stories, but she figures if Mikaelson is close enough to her that she needs it, she can always jam it into his eye. 

Besides, they need a way to mark their trail. 

_Breadcrumbs_ , she will say later to the debriefing agent, and from her nearby seat, Agent Bennett will give her a tiny nod of approval. 

Several silent minutes into their trek, she stops at a tree and uses her pilfered weapon to slice bark off of its trunk in the shape of a large X. Mikaelson stops too, and she feels his eyes on her as she channels her anger and despair to saw ferociously away at the woodchips. 

“Clever,” is all he says, and she suspects he has dismissed the blunt end of the knife as much as she has. 

They walk, her in front and acutely aware of him as she plots on how to get her gun without either one of them dying in the process; and him in the back, for what feels like an eternity. The morning forest, in contrast, is bursting with sounds, with life, as birds chirp brightly overhead and the bugs that had survived the first Virginia frost chitter noisily. 

If she concentrates, Caroline can almost convince herself that she’s just hiking. With a friend, maybe, or on a date. 

An hour later, and she’s lost the ability to fool herself of even that. The early fall day has turned warm and her blazer jacket is tied around her waist, her shirt sleeves rolled up, and her hair twisted into a messy bun by the pins she had refused to loan him the night before. Every so often she stops and carves another X into a tree trunk, but a glance down at her watch confirms that they are likely headed in the wrong direction. It’s been hours, and even on her worst days, it doesn’t take her this long to walk four measly miles. 

But, to his credit and her begrudging gratitude, Mikaelson doesn’t say anything when she stops and subtly re-routes them. “The highway must be winding,” she says from her perch on a downed trunk. “And I guess we’ve been walking towards a curve in the road.”

“Ah,” he says quietly from nearby, where he’s leaning against a tree. Caroline feels a stab of irritation—she’s disgustingly sweaty and can feel her lack of deodorant like an itch, while he has the audacity to look as though he’s posing for a designer’s back to nature campaign. “That would seem to pose a problem.” 

“We should try for higher ground,” she tells him. “Get a good vantage point, see where we are.” 

A sardonic smile pulls at his mouth and he spreads his arms wide to the forest that surrounds them. “What higher ground, love?”

“Agent,” she mutters under her breath. 

A twig snaps from somewhere behind them and Caroline vaults off the fallen tree trunk, whirling around to face the woods at their backs. 

But the forest is still and quiet; and it isn’t until she exhales and her arm brushes Mikaelson’s, that she realizes he, too, had sprung from his place to advance on the perceived danger. 

Mikaelson straightens and glances over at her. “Until we find higher ground then?” he suggests with a dip of his head. 

Her heartbeat slowly coming back down, she nods once. “Yeah. Until then.” 

They walk. 

And walk. 

_How long would you say you had walked?_ the debriefing agent will ask, her brow furrowed at her notes. 

_Easily over six miles, I think._

He’s far ahead of her now, a small figure in the distance. She stops and peers up at the sky, then down at her watch, her forehead wrinkling as she does the math in her head of just how much longer they can walk until they need to turn back. Another hour, she decides, another hour and— 

To her right, a flock of birds flies shrieking from the treetops and Caroline only has a moment to stare in confusion before a thick arm wraps around her midsection and a hand clamps down over her mouth, stifling the scream that begins to build in her throat. For a brief, terrifying moment, all memories of self-defense that she had taken at the Academy vanish from her mind, and Caroline is frozen.

“Stay fucking quiet,” a male voice hisses in her ear, and her training kicks in. _American accent—Midwestern maybe. Male._ Desperately tamping down on her rising panic, she looks down and sees that the hand covering her mouth is white, and dirty, as though its owner has been traipsing the woods too. “I’ll fucking kill you, bitch,” the voice continues, and the arm around her middle tightens, constricting her lungs.

Something prods at her side and her panic soars— he has a gun, and all she has is a dinner knife tucked into the front of her waistband.

But a single thought crystallizes, eclipsing the panic, the fear, the rising tide of hysteria that threatens to sweep her under:

_She is not fucking dying in the middle of a national goddamn forest without a stitch of deodorant on._

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Caroline steels her nerves before opening her mouth and biting down on the man’s dirty fingers as hard as she can. 

He howls and lets go of her immediately; _not experienced, probably barely a professional_ , she thinks wildly as she drops to her hands and knees, scrambling away from him—the hitman, _the driver_.

But inexperienced though he may be, he recovers quickly, the hand holding the gun drawing back as he advances on her. She braces herself, but the burst of pain across her face where he pistol-whips her is still enough for her to see stars and she tastes copper in her mouth. 

“Fucking cunt,” he growls at her, his hand wrapping around her ankle and dragging her back. Her fingers tighten around her pathetic weapon—if only she had her _gun_ —and she screams, as loudly as she can, “ _Mikaelson!_ ” The word, torn from her throat, echoes across the trees. 

“You think he gives a fuck about you?” the hitman demands as she struggles against his hold. Thick fingers wrap around her wrist, tightening until the pain makes her drop the dinner knife; it falls to the forest floor, useless. She aims a kick for his groin and connects instead with his inner thigh; but then the world is spinning, and she’s facing away from him, on her knees. 

Something hard and metallic presses against her temple and an icy finger of fear slides down her spine until all she can feel, all she can _see_ is terror. 

Caroline looks up to find Mikaelson standing in front of her, her gun in his hand, and a menacing expression on his face, nearly inhuman in its rage. She blinks and realizes that she is crying, tears of desperation, of fear, streaming down her face. _Fuck._

“Mikaelson,” the hitman greets evenly. There’s a _click_ , the gun being cocked, and the sound reverberates in her bones. “Best to get rid of the cop, don’t you think?”

Her breath hitches in her throat. “Kl—Klaus,” she whispers, tripping over her own voice; but he doesn’t seem to even hear her, his eyes flashing dangerously as they stay locked on her captor. _Oh god,_ her mother is going to be devastated, and what if they never even _find_ _her body_ — 

“I would tell you to give your benefactors my regards, but alas. I don’t think that will be possible,” Klaus says, his tone almost casual, but belied by its coldness. Caroline closes her eyes, the nozzle of the gun pressing harder into her skull, and prays to whoever is listening that her mother is okay, eventually. _Mom, I’m so sorry—_

A gunshot rings out, then there’s a heavy thud next to her. 

One breath. 

Then a second. 

She’s still here. 

_He killed the hitman, Forbes?_ Agent Bennett will demand later. 

_Yes, ma’am._

_Without hesitation?_

_Yes, ma’am._

Opening her eyes, her wet lashes sticking together, she looks jerkily to her right and there the hitman lays, blood pooling from the center of his forehead. It’s then that she notices the stains of bright red that have appeared on the right side of her white shirt—blood. 

Caroline swallows hard, and her throat feels as though there are bits of broken glass stuck in it. She pushes herself to her feet slowly, the movements clumsy and wobbling; her hands are shaking as she reaches for her fallen dinner knife, useless though it had been in her hour of need. 

“You shot him,” she whispers and Klaus sends her a hard look. 

“It was him or you,” he says, and the calm, lazy quality to his voice is almost as terrifying as the dead body on the ground next to her. 

“I—”

But whatever she had been about to say is interrupted by the twigs snapping under his feet as he walks over to examine the body. 

_The body_. 

He murdered someone in front of her, _for her_ , a crime that—her mind whirls, spinning in a thousand different directions—a crime that carries a sentence of life without parole _._

On top of the multiple charges he is already facing. 

The sound of his voice interrupts the chaotic swirling in her head. “We’re going back to the cabin,” Klaus informs her tersely, and when he makes as though to reach for her, she flinches backwards, nearly tripping over an exposed tree root. He stops, holds his hands up, and gestures widely with one for her to walk in front.

Her skin prickles, right between her shoulder blades, the entire way back. 

—

Her deeply gouged Xs lead them directly back to the cabin just in the nick of time: the sun has set, and the sky is a bright, brilliant lavender that, were Caroline sitting on her apartment’s balcony, she would have poured herself a glass of wine and gazed up at until it turned black. 

But she is not sitting on her apartment balcony; instead she is desperately grasping at the emotions that threaten to spill out of her, like a cup that has been filled to its very brim. Klaus is behind her, keeping his distance as she forges ahead, struggling to keep her mouth and fingers from trembling.

Caroline has never seen someone die before, not up close—she had made her peace with her father on his terms, and accepted his decision to spare her that particular dose of pain. He had doled out enough of it already over the course of their relationship, he had said before kissing her cheek and sending her away from his hospital bed. 

Her instructors at the Academy had described the experience to her in various ways— _It’s easier to pretend it’s a mannequin,_ one retired agent had said; _Usually, it was them or me_ , said another, _so I don’t feel too bad._ Her forensics instructor, the oldest agent on staff, had said, her voice tight, _Best to get it out of the way quickly. That way, the shock doesn’t sneak up on you at an inopportune moment._

Her cheek throbs. 

She heads straight to the shower, desperate to wash the smell of fear and sweat off of her skin, and he makes no move to stop her. Her hands shake as she strips, and she can’t look at herself in the cracked mirror over the sink.

The water isn’t hot the way it had been that morning, and she stands underneath its icy spray until the tips of her fingers are numb.

The warmth on her cheeks is what alerts her to the fact that she is crying again. “Stop it,” she whispers to herself, swiping desperately at her face. “You’re a _federal agent_ , Forbes. Fucking stop it.” 

It’s hardly a pep talk, and she can feel her already tenuous grasp on her self-control wavering. Wincing, she turns the shower off and stands there, eyes shut tight, breathing in deeply through her nose and exhaling through her mouth. Unlike her internal beratement of herself, it’s a tangible action and the repetitive nature allows her to cling to something. A life raft, a rope in a swirling, tempestuous sea. 

Nodding once, she wrings out her hair and reaches for the towel she had hung up that morning. 

Without any steam, the mirror hasn’t fogged up, and she stares directly at her reflection. Her cheekbone is purpling around a deep, viciously red cut— _God_ , she hopes it doesn’t scar—and there’s something in her eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday. “You’re a federal agent,” she repeats in a thin whisper before turning. 

But she takes one look at her grimy, blood spattered clothing strewn on the bathroom floor and feels her stomach lurch in revolt. She whirls around and lifts the toilet seat just in time before she loses her breakfast of canned pineapple and peanut butter crackers. 

When she stands, her face is paler now in the bathroom mirror, the bruise on her cheek standing out in stark contrast against the pallor of her skin. But she does feel the tiniest bit better. 

There is no toothpaste in the tiny bathroom, but there is floss and a bottle of Listerine; she swishes it around in her mouth until she regains some steadiness in her legs. 

But as soon as she leaves the bathroom, her carefully constructed mirage of strength crumbles. 

Every inch of the cabin, in its tininess, is visible from the corner in which she is standing, hands gripping tightly around her towel. And as her eyes move from the bed to the sofa to the small dining table, she comes to the cold, horrifying realization that the cabin is empty.

He isn’t there. 

_It was stupid,_ she will tell her mother later—not the debriefing agent, and never the FBI—as Liz Forbes strokes the hair from her forehead. _Like he was some security blanket I didn’t even realize I needed._

 _Trauma_ , her mother will say, her voice quiet and her fingers never faltering in their slow, steady slide through Caroline’s hair. _You went through a trauma, honey._

He isn’t there.

And she can’t breathe. 

Desperately, she tries what had just worked in the shower—in through the nose, hold; out through the mouth until there’s nothing left. 

Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. 

_Clothing_ , she thinks, striking out for something to complete, a task that needs doing. _I need clothes_. 

There is a block of ice sitting in the pit of her stomach, tendrils of freezing cold springing from it and wrapping around her veins as she strips a hanger of a flannel shirt, pulling it over her head. It reaches her knees and she lets the towel fall; but now, that box checked, she is back to her unmooring. Bile rises in the back of her throat and a singular thought eclipses all the others: _if she can lay down, she will feel better._

With hands that can’t seem to stop shaking, she climbs unsteadily onto the bed, curling herself into the smallest ball she can manage. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her shins; and, unable to stop them any longer, lets the tears flow. 

Twice, she had almost died. 

Twice, he had saved her. 

She is lost to the overwhelming despair—that they will be stuck here until they die, with only each other for company until the food runs out; that whoever sent the hitman will send another, and another, until her gun has run out of its six bullets—no, _five_ bullets, and she cries harder; that her mother will forever wonder what happened to her—until, without warning, strong arms slide around her middle and pull her in close. 

“Shhh,” he says quietly, warm at her back. “You’re safe now.” 

One of his hands, hands that had only hours ago ended a life in front of her, had ended a life _for her_ , come up to gently smooth her damp hair off of her forehead. “You’re safe,” he repeats, his stubble gently scraping against her unmarked cheek, and she adds it to the list of things she will never, ever tell the FBI. 

Because it helps. 

— 

**tbc**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two of my works have been nominated for KC Awards, so if you'd like to read those, you can go [here](https://kcawards.tumblr.com/post/638032628539375616/2020-kc-awards-nominees) for a full list of nominees! There's some great stuff nominated, so enjoy!
> 
> Feel free to give me a follow on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sunnydaisy6) or [Tumblr](https://little-miss-sunny-daisy.tumblr.com/)!


	4. day three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All’s only fair in love and war, sweetheart, and this, I’m afraid, is neither.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas ya filthy animals.

**until the break of day**

* * *

_Day Three_

When the smell of coffee wakes her, it is only barely light out, and Caroline doesn’t immediately remember. 

She knows where she is—a cabin in the woods; and who with—an infamous art thief; and when she swings her bare legs over the side of the bed, she remembers the car crash. Her back and her neck are both still feeling the lingering soreness of forward momentum violently halted. 

But it isn’t until she yawns and the skin of her face stretches, a flash of pain slicing through her cheek, that she remembers the previous day. 

A shot, a thud, bloodstains on her shirt, and an icy look of no remorse. 

She finds, when she looks down at her wrist and sees the blue-black bruises of fingerprints that encircle the small bones there, that she doesn’t have any remorse either. 

There’s a familiar sound outside, and as she’s reaching for the soft gossamer curtains that hang around the windows, Klaus says from somewhere behind her, “It’s raining.”

 _Ah._ Her nose wrinkles as she peers out of the window’s dirty glass— _raining_ is an understatement. 

It’s absolutely pouring, hard enough that she can only see the creek because it has doubled in size, water overflowing its banks. There is no way they can try to hike for the road until it stops, and the darkness of the sky doesn’t bode well for that happening anytime soon. She lets the curtain fall back into place with a soft sigh. “Great,” she mumbles, retreating from the window dejectedly and turning towards the kitchen, where he stands at the counter, his back to her.

Klaus doesn’t turn around as he says, “Peaches or pineapples?”

At the word _pineapple_ , her stomach turns; all she can think of is how she threw them up after— “Peaches.” 

Minutes later, they’re sitting across from each other at the small table, eating their canned fruit breakfast with the soft sound of falling rain the only thing breaking the silence. 

“So,” she says carefully as she slowly chews her canned peaches. Her spoon scrapes the inside of the can as she chases the last one; it’s a loud, grating noise and she finds herself glancing up at him to see if it has shattered their calm, quiet truce. But he doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes locked on her face. “Did you get a good look at the body?” 

She’s proud of herself when her voice doesn’t shake around the words. _You are a goddamn federal agent_ , she reminds herself internally.

“I did.”

It’s a non-committal answer, and the wheels in her analytical mind begin to turn. He doesn’t want to tell her what he knows, which cannot be good news. 

Not that the identity of a dead hitman was ever destined to be good news, she thinks, fighting back a sigh. 

“And?” 

Klaus meets her eyes, and his are unreadable. 

“Petrovas,” he says simply as he stands. He tosses his empty can into a paper bag and begins to busy himself in the kitchen; another bad sign, she’s pretty sure. 

“How do you know? Did you recognize him?"

“No.” He picks something up and reaches over to toss it onto the table in front of her. She blinks in recognition at the sight of a legal pad— _her_ legal pad—where there is a rough sketch of what looks to be a family crest, a crown at the top and an elaborately scripted _P_ in the middle, drawn on the yellow paper. “It’s standard for the Petrovas to require their members get their family sigil tattooed over their heart. Sign of loyalty, and all that.”

For a moment all she can do is look down at the legal pad and chew on the inside of her cheek, until she blurts out, “Did you go through my briefcase?”

“Don’t worry,” he says without looking up from where he is refilling the kettle to boil their drinking water. “I left you your Twix.” 

Caroline sputters. “Don’t— _don’t do that_!” 

“Do what?” His voice is all affronted innocence. 

“Don’t go through my stuff!”

He shrugs and looks entirely too nonchalant for her taste, though, she reminds herself, he _is_ a thief. She shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Apologies, love,” he says and she thinks, _Agent._

But she doesn’t bother correcting him, instead biting her lip and drumming up the courage to ask him the question that has been lingering since the previous night. “Why did you kill him? Instead of me?”

Klaus considers her for a long moment, and she gets the impression he is taking the measure of her—deciding on just how much she can withstand before she breaks. Unconsciously, her spine straightens.

“This predicament we find ourselves in, sweetheart,” he begins slowly, his lashes sweeping down and casting shadows over his cheekbones, “has been brought about because the Petrovas wanted to send me a message.” He gestures with his empty mug. “But they also happen to owe me a small fortune for—well, let’s just say some of my _earlier work_.” A grin crosses his face, a sharp, biting thing with no humor to be found in its depths. “Perhaps I wanted to send a message, too.” 

She stares at him uncertainly, and his expression softens at the edges, turning into something far gentler. “Besides,” he continues casually, turning his back to her to pour his water, “I find you much more agreeable, sweetheart.”

An internal debate briefly wars within her, then— “Agent,” she corrects mildly. 

But he only chuckles.

—

With the continuing onslaught of rain, they are well and truly stuck in the tiny cabin. 

Caroline paces as he watches, a slightly amused edge to his expression; it takes her six steps to cross the length of the kitchen. 

“The Petrovas want the Matisse you stole, right?” she says finally, pointing at him as she makes her eighteenth trip across the small space. 

“I assume so.”

“Is there anything else they could possibly want?” Her eyes narrow on him. “Have you wronged them somehow in the past? Aside from the Matisse?”

That makes a grin break across his face. “Of course I have, sweetheart.” 

She waits for the explanation that she expects to be forthcoming, but after one beat of silence, then two, she gestures impatiently towards him. “Well? Care to share?”

“Don’t think I will, actually,” Klaus demurs easily, pouring a cup of steaming water into a mug and sliding it towards her. “I’ve no desire to add to my list of charges, love. And if I remember correctly, I believe I still retain the right to remain silent.” One of his eyebrows lifts, as if daring her to argue. 

Instead, she glares at him and picks up the mug, holding it up close to her mouth so that the steam curls up towards her face. “Needs lemon and whiskey,” she grumbles under her breath, and with that, an idea strikes her. If her theory about this cabin being an illegal pit stop for hunters is correct, then— 

Caroline sets her mug down and heads over to the pantry where the cans of food are neatly stacked. She moves a few cans aside and spies exactly what she’s looking for—the glimmer of a bottle, its liquid contents dark. Buoyed by the discovery, she stands up on her tiptoes and reaches towards the back of the shelf. 

There is warmth at her back, and before she has a chance to turn and demand he back up a step or twelve, his hand enters her field of vision, reaching for the same bottle. She has the brief sensation of being engulfed by him before, disgruntled, she side-steps out of his arms. 

She knows what he’s doing, the game he is playing—trying to intimidate her, using his height and greater size to crowd her. 

What she can’t understand is _why_. She thought they had a truce after—well. After yesterday. 

Scowling at his profile, Caroline crosses her arms and turns her gaze to the rest of the cabin. “So the Petrovas want something from you badly enough to try to kill you for it, but they _don’t_ want it badly enough to make sure you didn’t actually die?” She wrinkles her nose. “Doesn’t make a ton of sense.”

“They don’t, always,” he agrees as he hands her the bottle—Jim Beam bourbon, filled to the top, the seal unbroken. She takes it, eying it closely as her brain turns over this new piece of the cabin’s puzzle. Its presence slots in nicely with her theory that the cabin is an off-the-grid hideaway for what is most likely highly illegal off-season hunting.

“How about this,” Klaus continues, pulling something else from the cabinet; the clatter of plastic on plastic makes her look up from the bottle she is holding. It’s a chess board, the cardboard of the box old and weathered, its colors faded. “A round, and a question for a question.” He nods to the bottle in her hand. “Drink for drink, if you’d like.”

 _No_ is on the tip of her tongue, taking shape on her lips, but something stops her. Maybe it’s the events of the last two days—a car accident; the loss of her colleagues and in Salvatore’s case, a friend—or the still lingering feel of blood hitting her shirt and the pain in her cheek—but she considers the bottle, then him, then the game in his hand. 

“I have conditions,” she warns, taking the box from him.

“I expect nothing less.”

Caroline rolls her eyes as she walks away from him, setting the bottle and the set on the small table in the living room. “The truth, for one.”

“Then I must insist that this be strictly off the record, without exception.” He pauses before adding with exaggerated emphasis, “ _Agent._ ”

It’s a fair point on his part, and it almost makes her reconsider. 

But unbidden, the driver’s face swarms into her memory, bringing with it the bitter taste of terror that had accompanied her brush with death. Her cheek throbs, and the rain outside seems to intensify, the branches of the nearby trees swaying. 

“Fine,” she says finally. “Off the record, Scout’s honor.” She motions to the chessboard she has unfolded across the table. “Now help me set this up.” 

The smile he sends her way is bright and dimpled. 

—

“I have to warn you,” Caroline says as she places the last piece neatly in its little box on the board, “I’m really good at chess.”

It’s a bald-faced lie—all of her knowledge of the game was learned from a weekend binge of _The Queen’s Gambit_ and her subsequent download of a chess app on her phone that did nothing more than teach her that she is absolute hot trash at the game. The extent of her abilities includes setting up the board, and probably beating the average fifth grader. 

Maybe. 

Klaus simply offers her a half smile and says smoothly, “I trust you’ll take pity on my less than subpar skills, then.” 

“No promises, Mikaelson.” 

Caroline measures as exact a half-shot of bourbon as she can manage in the bottle’s tiny thimble of a cap, then pours it into her steaming water. “Smells like college,” she mutters under her breath before taking a sip; it’s sharp and stinging as it slides down her throat. 

His pieces are white, so he moves first; and she is only a little taken aback when he slides a pawn forward after only a half-glance down. “What school?” 

She takes another swallow before leaning over to peer down at the board, pretending to consider her options before thinking, _fuck it_ and moving her own pawn cautiously forward. “Northwestern. Where’s the Matisse?”

That makes him laugh, a low, deep chuckle that skirts across her skin; she takes another drink to ward it off. “Nice try, love.” With a swiftness that makes her heart sink, he moves his rook forward. “I promised the truth, not transparency.”

“Then I get a second question,” she counters, folding her arms as she settles back into her chair and eyes the board. “It’s only fair.”

“All’s only fair in love and war, sweetheart, and this, I’m afraid, is neither.” He too leans back in his chair, but instead of the board, he eyes her. “How long have you been with the FBI?”

It’s the same question Agent Bennett had asked her not even a week ago, but it somehow feels more ensnaring coming from him—as though he’s probing for every possible weakness he can find in her. 

“A year,” she says crisply, refusing to give him any further information. Two can play his game. 

For a long moment, silence sits between them, until he gestures and says easily, “Your move.” 

With a scowl, she pushes another pawn forward, hoping to God it isn’t evident that she is entirely outclassed. “Where, _specifically_ , is the rest of your family? Your father, you said, is in Bolivia, but the rest of the Originals. Where are they?” 

She knows from his file that he is one of five, and he has already mentioned his brother Finn. But his remaining family, his other siblings—all noted thieves in their own right—they are what interest her. Mostly enigmas to the agency, she only knows one of their names—Elijah, the one he has run with in the past. 

Klaus captures her proffered pawn quickly. “Specifically,” he hums, and she watches from under her lashes as he spins the pawn in his fingers, “I would guess that my brother Finn is not far from the DC area. My other brothers are likely on the continent, and my sister—” he breaks off and laughs a little. “God knows where she is. Doing whatever she pleases, most likely.” 

“You don’t know?” 

He glances up, a smirk playing over his features as he shakes his head. “We’re hardly a pop band, sweetheart. Ah,” he cuts her off as her mouth opens, another question forming there. “You’ve already exceeded your number of questions. Just for that, I must insist on a second one as well.”

Caroline glares at him instead of answering. 

“Chin up, sweetheart, I don’t bite.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Ask your questions.”

“Were you a Girl Scout?” 

“Yep.” 

The expression on his face is aggravatingly amused at her tight response; her petulance, to her great frustration, is not having the same effect on him as his is on her. “Interesting,” is all he murmurs, but before she can demand what exactly is so _interesting_ about learning how to cook over a campfire, he continues, “And where are you from then, sweetheart?” 

Instead of replying, she crosses her arms and pins him with a speaking glance. “My question.” Her tone dares him to argue.

“You didn’t answer the second one,” he notes mildly.

“Yeah well.” She looks down her nose at him as she takes his knight in a move she’s not one hundred percent sure is legal. But he doesn’t make any attempt to stop her, so she lines it up neatly next to her end of the board. “All may be fair in love and war, but this is neither.” Her eyes meet his. “Right?” 

The grin he sends her way is catlike, slow and cunning. 

She aims her next question carefully. “Why is your brother after you?” 

It doesn’t land the way she hopes. He lifts one shoulder, then drops it, as casual as though she had asked him his thoughts on the Nationals’ chances at the pennant. “Who can say, sweetheart? He was always a little off, that one.”

One of her eyebrows arches; it’s his look and from the tiny twitch of his lips, he recognizes it. “Uh, _you_? You can say.” 

Klaus tilts his head slightly, dimpling. “True,” he acknowledges and she gets the distinct impression that he’s fighting off a smirk. “Fine. My brother Finn took our father’s…” he gestures with his mug, “instruction to heart.” 

“What instructions?” 

He looks up at her from underneath lashes that are far too long for a man. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, and he has the audacity to swipe her rook from the board as he does it. “Thought we had established a rule of one question at a time.” 

“You are _incredibly_ annoying.” 

The smile he sends her is almost disarming. “I’ve been told I’m charming.” 

“Yeah, well, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you were lied to.” She reaches for her mug, and, upon finding it empty, pushes herself out of her seat for more bourbon. 

The boiled water has long cooled, but she drains the kettle anyway, adding a more generous helping of bourbon this time around. Her watch, ticking faithfully away at her wrist, shows that it’s barely two pm, but with the faded light outside, it hardly feels like day-drinking. 

Behind her, he hums. “You should be nicer to me, seeing as how I’ve saved your life. Twice now, I believe, if we’re keeping count.” 

Something twists in her stomach at the reminder, and privately, she makes a note to pass that information along to the judge—it’s the least she can do. 

Her cheek aches. 

The bottle in her hand is still pouring, amber liquid slipping out with dangerous ease. _I’m questioning a suspect_ , she reasons to herself, as the bottle tips precariously in her hand. _A suspect who could become hostile._ So what if her hand slips? Who is there to tell on her? Certainly not him—strangely, she believes him when he says _off the record._

With a newly full mug, Caroline returns to her seat and blinks down at the board. “My turn, or your turn?”

“Yours.” 

Emboldened, in part by the bourbon in her bloodstream, she makes to move her queen forward; but to her shock, he reaches forward and covers her grip with his, stopping her. 

“Illegal, love,” he warns, and he moves her hand to another square, directing the queen in the opposite direction. And, with the piece safely deposited on the board, he lets go and leans back, leaving her blinking, her skin suddenly both too warm and too tight. 

She has no idea how to respond, so instead, she powers forward, asking the first thing the springs into her mind. “Why art?”

At the quirk of his eyebrow, she quickly clarifies. “I mean, why _steal_ art? Why not, like, steal from banks? Or go full Robin Hood? God knows this country could use it.” 

Klaus tilts his head and the steadiness of his eyes on her is almost unnerving. She has to stop herself from shifting in her seat.

“My youngest brother died,” he says finally, “long before any of this. It was unexpected, and tragic, and afterwards, our family fractured.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Have you ever stolen anything, sweetheart?” 

“I haven’t.” She doesn’t call out the unauthorized question; she barely even notices that he’s asked it, fully caught in his dark blue gaze. 

He nods once, as though it’s the answer he expected, then leans forward, his fingers lacing together in front of him. 

“There’s a rush,” he tells her quietly, his voice a low timber in the small space, “from the moment you begin, that lasts long after your escape. First, will I be seen?” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him move his queen forward, capturing her pawn that was in his way, but she makes no move to take her turn. 

“Then, as you begin to slip away—will I be caught?” Her pilfered pawn slides in between his fingers as he looks directly at her. “Finally, your exit, and with that—” he sends her a slow, easy smirk that she feels all the way to her toes. “Success.” Klaus motions with her pawn. “It’s quite heady, I must say.

It takes her a minute to force the words out around her dry throat. “But why _art_?” 

“Because,” he says lazily, “I enjoy beautiful things.” His head tilts. “And the money is excellent.” 

That makes her snap out of it; she blinks rapidly as she regains her metaphorical footing. “Your question,” she reminds him.

He doesn’t waste a beat. “Why a field agent?” he asks, leaning forward as he examines the board. Under his meticulous gaze, she imagines it’s less of a game and more a battlefield; she thinks everything may be a battlefield to him. 

Caroline fingers one of her few pieces that remain on the board as she considers her answer. “Forensics required too many chemistry classes, and behavioral sciences isn’t my thing,” she says carefully, straining to keep her voice even. 

He glances up, and the look in his eyes invites her to continue; before she can stop herself, her grievances spill out unbidden. 

“All behavioral sciences will tell you is: _young, white male, loner, shitty relationship with his mother_. Speaking of,” she tiles her head curiously, “how’s your relationship with _your_ mother?”

“Passed. Several years ago.”

Well. Now she feels like an asshole, especially after the admission about his youngest brother. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says softly, the wind out of her sails. He doesn’t look up and something tugs deep in her chest, propelling the words out of her before she can over analyze them. “My dad died last year.”

That does make him look up, his eyes dark. “Condolences,” he says quietly before moving a chess piece. He nods to the board. “Your move.” _Your question._

Chess is very clearly not her game, and she frowns at the board—he is obviously more skilled than she is. “Damn,” she mutters under breath before slumping back in her seat and taking a long drink from the mug next to her. Maybe the bourbon will pull innovation from some back corner of her mind. “What was the first thing you ever stole?”

“One of my sister’s toys,” he says smoothly and that makes her glare at him in faux-outrage. 

“You know what I mean,” she chastises before taking another drink and thinking _fuck it_ as she moves her knight to take his rook. 

“You should be more deliberate with your questions,” he retorts easily, and he punctuates his point by capturing one of her pieces with a smoothness that makes her mouth go dry. “Why was Salvatore checking on you in the car?”

The question makes her blink. “Huh?”

“In the car.” Klaus gestures with her captured piece. “Salvatore asked if you were, and I quote, ‘doing okay.’ Why?” His eyebrow arches and he leans forward. “Tawdry affair, love?”

Caroline sputters. “Um, _no._ He’s a coworker, and also married.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Run into Stefan before?” 

Something, some emotion she thinks she recognizes but can’t quite pin down, flashes across his face before his features settle. “Arresting agent,” he says, lifting his mug as though to toast her. “And that was a free question, love. You’ve yet to answer mine.” 

“What, about me and Stefan?” She stares down at the board, her brow wrinkled. “He is— _was_ —a good person. We were friends, I guess, and it— I think he was just trying to look out for me.” She pauses. “This was my first assignment. As a field agent.” 

He laughs around the mouth of his mug. “I’m afraid that you were dealt a poor hand, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” she grumbles with a pointed glare at the cabin around them. “God, my mom is probably _freaking_ out.” At his questioning glance, she elaborates, “Only child.”

“Ah.”

The board in front of her might as well contain hieroglyphics for all that she knows what to do with her remaining pieces. Sighing, Caroline moves her final bishop forward despondently. “What’s the most famous piece of art you’ve ever stolen?”

Instead of answering immediately, Klaus takes a long sip from his mug, then stands for his own refill; she takes the opportunity to let her eyes skate over the lines of his back as he reaches to fill the kettle with the well water that flows from the tap. There are no watchful eyes here—she is the only one around to judge, and given the events of the last few days, she’s willing to cut herself some slack. 

He turns as the water boils, the kettle humming. “Picasso’s _Tete d'Arlequin_ ,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the counter. The name makes her jerk in surprise.

“That was _you_?” She frowns, her brain spinning as she tries to remember what she had read about the Kunsthal Museum heist in Rotterdam. “But they caught the guy who did it, I thought?” 

Klaus grins, and her stomach flips; she takes another drink to settle it. “They certainly caught someone,” he says languidly.

Behind him, the kettle whistles shrilly, and once his mug is refilled with equal parts water and bourbon, he sits back down across from her. It only takes him a moment to study the board before he slides his pawn over, and if she’s not mistaken, she’s only a few moves away from check. 

But the bourbon makes it hard to care. She moves her own pawn forward and asks the question she’s been thinking for at least three rounds— it’s one of the more difficult ones, though she finds the bourbon helps ease its way. “Why is your father hunting you?” 

He pauses and looks up from the board. 

Slowly, his eyes never wavering from hers, he says, “After my mother’s passing, my father found God. As such, it suddenly occurred to him that we—all of his children, with the occasional exception of Finn, who knows nothing of loyalty, I’m afraid—were steeped in sin, and he has taken it upon himself to correct what he sees as a failure in parenting.” 

It’s a surprisingly honest answer, and as such, Caroline is a little unsure of what to say in response. He moves his piece, taking with it her bishop, and she finds herself in—

“Check,” he says. 

_Damn it._ “I’m actually really, really bad at chess,” she admits finally, slumping back in her seat and blowing her hair out of her face. 

“I noticed,” he demurs before gesturing towards the board. “Be that as it may, you still have several pathways to victory.”

Caroline snorts. “Don’t sugarcoat it. I suck at this.” She sets her queen on its side, then sticks her hand out gamely. “Congrats on your win.” 

His grip is strong, his skin warm. “A worthy opponent,” he says gravely, and she snorts again. 

“Don’t patronize me,” she grumbles, but it’s light-hearted and he still hasn’t let go of her hand. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” 

The endearment has her pulling her hand away, but it’s a reaction that is too delayed to carry the sting of rejection; and from the ghost of a smirk that crosses his face, he notices. 

“Another game?” 

She makes a face and stands, collecting the chess pieces to slide them back into their worn box. “Gotta say, Mikaelson, I have my limits on losing graciously.” 

“Mikaelson,” Klaus echoes, and he too, stands. “Surely we are past that.” His eyes lock on hers, and she has to stop herself from swallowing. “Caroline.” 

Later, she won’t remember who moved first, only that she did nothing to stop him. 

Later, when she thinks about it, she will consider blaming it all on the bottle of cheap bourbon they split. 

Later, she will justify to herself that it was _a lot_ of bourbon. 

He tastes like it, like the sting of alcohol, but so does she, and her world narrows until it consists solely of the slide of his tongue past her part lips and into her mouth. 

She pulls back and he makes a disgruntled sound at the move. “Off the record, right?” She breathes the question into the tiny space that separates them, and looks up at him from under her eyelashes.

“We’ve already established that, love,” he reminds her in a deep, rumbling purr, and then he closes the gap between them. His mouth is soft, but insistent, and he presses her backwards until she feels the hard surface of the kitchen counter behind them. His hands slip under the flannel of her stolen shirt as he deepens the kiss, his tongue easing further into her mouth. 

But when she kisses him back, the skin of her face pulls in just the right way, making her wince against her injury as the events of the previous day—a single shot, a thud, and the stark red contrasting the white of her shirt—threaten to overwhelm her senses. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his lips tracing the cut and surrounding bruise, as though to ease the sting away. “Sorry, sweetheart,” and his fingers follow, tracing where his lips had been. It occurs to her in the back recess of her mind as she watches him that his career as a thief must have endowed him with his light touch. 

“I’m sorry,” Caroline echoes back to him, her hands coming up to wrap around his wrists. “That you had to—you said you weren’t a murderer, and now—” she swallows hard. “I’m sorry.” 

His eyes are nearly black. “Hardly needed.” 

What she does know, what she can’t rewrite later, is that it’s her hands that cup his face and guide his mouth back down to hers. 

He makes a noise of approval deep in the back of his throat, and she feels her face flush in response; but then his hands are back against the skin of her waist and creeping upwards and she can’t care anymore. 

The bourbon still burns in her veins, in her throat, and when she feels the hard line of his cock pressing against her thigh, her heart can’t help but skip a beat. 

The world spins, and, his mouth never once leaving hers, he maneuvers her backwards until she feels the edge of the bed hit the backs of her legs. One of his hands travels from her waist to curl into her hair while the other slides down to the band of her pants, and a lightning bolt of reason zips through her. 

“We can’t,” she says on an exhale, her breath ruffling his hair. “It would just— it would complicate things.” She presses her palm into her forehead before peeking up at him. 

To his credit, his expression hasn’t changed. “Sweetheart,” he says in her ear, his fingers toying with the button of her pants but making no further effort to remove them, “we can go as far as you’d like.” His nose touches hers in a gesture that is almost fond. “But I can assure you—” his lips move to the column of her throat, “—I am most adept at separating business and pleasure.” 

The look on his face, combined with the bourbon singing in her bloodstream, almost makes her reconsider. 

_A rush_ , he had said, _from the moment you begin._

Caroline can’t remember the last time she had felt that way. 

But one heartbeat turns into two, and as her skin cools, the moment slips away like sand through her fingers. 

Klaus feels it too, and he sends a rueful half-smile down to the space between them. “In another life, then,” he says before lifting her knuckles and brushing them with his lips. 

And as she pads off to the bathroom for some floss and mouthwash—and a splash or two of cold water to the face—she wonders if maybe things aren’t complicated already.

—

 _What did you do all day, with it raining outside?_ the debriefing agent will ask her. _Since you couldn’t leave the cabin._

She won’t hesitate with her answer. _Slept mostly. He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information, though I tried to get as much as I could._

Agent Bennett will nod, as though she expected as much, and the debriefing agent will scribble notes down on her pad. 

And Caroline will tell herself it isn’t exactly a lie. 

— 

**tbc**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I watched too much of The Queen's Gambit, and YES, I am not good at chess. Please forgive any chess-related mistakes.
> 
> The [Kunsthal Museum heist](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kunsthal#Art_theft) is very real, and a Pablo Picasso painting was stolen (and probably burned, unfortunately, along with several other paintings). 
> 
> I hope you all have a lovely holiday if you celebrate, and a lovely weekend if you don't. As always, I am on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sunnydaisy6) and [Tumblr](https://little-miss-sunny-daisy.tumblr.com/)!


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